fIrst the trees rise up, then are lopped

into logs, a family

taken at birth to serve a purpose

to rise again in smoke

giving solace to us who huddle

against the almighty sky as it draws

the hot breath, rubbing its hands

when we are finished with it

 

and the children dance into the night

 

wrapped in flame like a will collapsing

            a coloration of the hot spectrum

            as the dead life is drawn out.

 

and the log man in charge of this purge

 

keen of eye, free to roam yardbound

knows the value of heat from the ground

up, will face you with his wooden face

there when he needs you

with stumps and stacks contoured with

the rings and grain shouting history

 

fingerprints of the family

 

            who share his life with the crawling

            and teeming invaders looking for a home